8
WRECKER
By the time we arrive home, Chelsea feels like a block of ice. I ignore the ringing of my cellphone and hustle her into the bathroom. While the water heats up, I help her shed her jeans, her sweater, socks and boots.
“Why am I so cold?” She clutches her arms and shivers. Her legs are trembling so much I wonder if I should have hit the stopper on the tub but the water’s hot and it should warm her up soon enough.
“Adrenal fatigue. Your body increased its hormonal levels during your flight from the Trainors’ and now it’s adjusting.” She frowns. I raise my hands. “I read while I was in prison.”
That generates a small smile from her. “What about you?”
“I’m still feeling the rush.” I shove my own jeans to the floor. “And I have a different reaction.”
A lone eyebrow arches up as she takes in my obvious hard on.
“You coming in?” She pushes the curtain aside and I whip the rest of my clothes off.
“Yup. Gotta make sure you’re warm from the inside out. Which one of these is soap?” I point to the multiple bottles in a small basket in the corner. I have one bottle—shampoo—and I use that to wash myself from top to bottom. Chelsea has seven. She hands me a pink bottle. I open it and it smells like Chelsea—fruity and delicious. Maybe I should start using her shit more often.
“Don’t even think about it,” she warns.
“What?” I ask innocently but she knows me too well.
“You cannot use my strawberry kiwi dessert body wash in your hair.”
“How about on my smelly arm pits?”
She leans into me, wet, plump and warm. “I like your man smell. Don’t ruin it. Stinky armpits and all.”
“Turn around,” I order gruffly. “Or this shower thing will be over before it starts.”
The way her stomach presses against my dick sends a flood of heat through my frame that has nothing to do with the temperature of the water. Instead of doing as I asked, she wraps her slippery arms around my shoulders and hooks a leg around my hip. If I dipped my knees, I could slide right between her legs and I know she’d be wet inside, too.
“Stop it,” I growl.
She rubs her tits against me, the hard points of her nipples scraping against my chest wall. Fuck. “I’m clean,” she says. It feels like a taunt and shit the water’s going to get cold any minute. I drop the fruit salad bottle onto the tub floor, crank the water to the off position and pick up my girl. Laughing, she presses kisses around my forehead.
Her legs wrap around my waist and my cock unerringly finds its target. With each step my dick rubs against her damp flesh and by the time we reach the bed, I’m about two seconds from blowing all over her.
“Baby, I’m not going to last long.”
She bites her lower lip. “Me either.”
Her glittery eyes tell me she’s just as far gone. Thank Christ.
I throw her onto the bed and drop a hand between her legs. The slick evidence of her arousal coats my fingers. I slide a single finger inside her and lean forward to capture her lips. She tastes of desire, smells of fruit, and feels like the only woman I’ll ever want.
“Every night I was away from you, every minute we spent apart, I imagined standing between your legs, kissing these lips, stroking your skin. Fucking you.” I shake my head. “No, fuck. Making love to you. Because I love you, Chels. You’re number one in my life. You’re more important to me than the Club, the cut. Judge. All of it.”
“Oh, honey.” She curls up and kisses me softly. It is less of a kiss and more of a blessing. “You don’t have to choose. You were born a Death Lord and you’ll die with your leathers on. And I’ll be there with you, every step of the way.”
And with that said, Chels reaches between us and takes my stiff rod in her hands and guides me to her opening. I watch as the crown of my dick disappears between her plush lips. We share a groan as I inch inside her. Silently I start reciting the alphabet backward so I don’t blow my wad before I make it all the way in.
“Can’t get enough of you, baby.” I clutch her ample hips and pull her up as I thrust all the way to the root. Her hands claw at the mattress as I set a furious pace. I can feel the orgasm rolling up from my toes but I’m not leaving her behind. “Come with me baby.” I lick my thumb and press it against her little clit.
“Yes, right there,” she pants. “Right fucking there.”
Rubbing her furiously, I hammer my hips forward hard and fast. Her tight cunt squeezes me as I thrust. I conjure pictures of the blue hairs in her salon, the shitty football play of the Vikings for the last decade, the inside of the MKII GT40. My thumb rubs against her clit in tiny circles until she’s writhing on the bed. Her hips thrust up, begging for her release. I bend down and capture her mouth, fucking her with my tongue, my fingers, my cock. Everything I’ve got I pour into her until her body tenses like a strung bow.
“Come for me. Right now,” I demand against her lips.
Her cry of release fills the air. She’s more intoxicating than any beer, more addicting than any drug. The orgasm I’ve been holding off overtakes me. I jet hot streams of come inside her. In fact, I come so hard and long, my legs turn to jelly and I collapse on top of her.
Her sweaty arms come around me to stroke softly down my back until my breathing evens out and I no longer feel like a spent wreck.
I roll off of her, replete and exhausted. I can feel the crash coming but Chelsea is still wired.
“What is it?” I ask.
“I’m thinking about the garbage bags. What do you think Shelby saw? Do you think she’s in on the meth cooking?”
“Nah.” I drag a limp arm over my sweaty face. “I think one of the Trainors asked her to get rid of the trash and she looked inside and saw empty containers of formaldehyde and fertilizer. The Trainors live on the golf course and not a farm so the likelihood of them needing that kind of shit in big quantities was low. It spelled trouble and she knew better than to get rid of it.”
“How’d you know?”
“Smell and don’t ask me how I know the smell. I just do.” While we don’t traffic in meth or other drugs, I’ve been around enough clubs that do to be familiar with the smell and even the look of labs. A club with meth users isn’t one that lasts very long. Drug addicts would sell their own mothers for a hit. Brotherhood and loyalty aren’t compatible with the hardcore users.
“You know what else stinks?” Chelsea harrumphs. “Mr. Trainor. Where the hell is he? His wife gets shot, his house has a meth lab, we blow it up but he’s in the wind. One of the customers sai
d that he works at the IDS Tower.”
“And you want us to follow him.”
“Yeah. Let’s find him and figure out what he knows.”
I roll on my side and prop myself up on my elbow. Chelsea is staring at the ceiling no doubt envisioning us catching Mr. Trainor making some sale on a street corner in downtown Minneapolis which isn’t going to happen but I also know that if I don’t go with her, she’ll go by herself. Also not happening.
“You ever do surveillance work?”
She turns her head toward me and a cute little wrinkle appears between her brows. “No, when would I have done that?”
“I have. It’s boring as fuck.”
“So?” she shrugs. “We’ll be bored together.”
I flop onto my back. “Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”
* * *
“I’m getting cold,” Chelsea moans. I hand her the thermos we refilled with hot water at the coffee shop a block down. With a grateful smile, she takes it and swallows half the bottle. “You know when you said it was going to be boring, I figured that it’s because you’d done it before and so all the newness has worn off, but no, it is excruciatingly dull.”
I wash down my I told you sos with a healthy swig from the thermos. After a half day’s work and a lame ass excuse to Judge that I know he didn’t buy, we drove up to Minneapolis and are now sitting outside the building where Mr. Trainor works. We’ve been sitting here, on and off, for the last two hours, hoping to see him leave. We know he’s inside because Chelsea spent the morning calling nearly every business in the fifty-seven story building that sounded like it may have an accountant. She hit pay dirt on the fourteenth call. Stage Coach Financial Services confirmed that Mr. Trainor was in his office but was away from his desk.
So now we wait. I gulp down more water even though I know that I’ll have to piss it out in a half hour but Chels is right. It’s damn cold just sitting here, across from the building. We’ve taken turns going inside and walking through the skywalk to warm up but it’s better when we’re together, even if all we’re doing is staring at a set of revolving doors. Plus we have to keep plugging the meter where the truck is parked. This time we’ve brought Abel’s vehicle. It’s a black Ford, pretty common around here.